


Closure

by ChookTingle



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Blood and Violence, Captivity, Deepthroating, Drugged Sex, M/M, Non-Consensual, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Past Rape/Non-con, Psychological Trauma, Rape Fantasy, Rape Recovery, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-06 17:18:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15199664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChookTingle/pseuds/ChookTingle
Summary: Le Chiffre is taken in by MI6. Bond can't seem to let go of what happened.





	Closure

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rosecake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosecake/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Освобождение](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16063427) by [fandom_James_Bond_2018](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandom_James_Bond_2018/pseuds/fandom_James_Bond_2018), [maricon_lanero](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maricon_lanero/pseuds/maricon_lanero)



Sometimes, he still thinks about Le Chiffre. 

He doesn't particularly want to, of course, and when it first started, months after the game, after Montenegro and the chair and the smell of rust and sweat and his own blood in the air that he can't quite put out of his mind, he tried very hard to ignore it. His work requires a kind of detachment that he should have been able to apply to what happened then, too, as he has with a great many other things. The trouble was, he couldn't. He hasn't.

So, he still thinks about Le Chiffre. Completely unbidden, the fucking man will be in his head, and he likes to think that why it's that man of all men is a mystery to him, but it's frankly not. Completely unbidden, he'll be sitting in a café or stealing state secrets from an obscure nation's embassy or buying himself a loaf of bread because he's been away for so long that the one he found on the counter in his flat's almost grown legs and walked away, and Le Chiffre will jump into his head. Sometimes he can shake it off; others, he can't. 

M's sent him to see a therapist. He thinks they like to call her a therapist because it sounds more like her manicured fingers will be digging into a massage than poking around in his brain, and the Secret Intelligence Service is nothing if not brilliantly euphemistic. It's not that he can't do his job because he can, and he still does it very well, but he knows it's more than an exercise in MI6 covering their arse. He's not so naive as to think he's at the top of his game, all things considered. And, since the game, since Montenegro and the chair and that smell in the air that he tastes sometimes, sickly, sharply, in that instant between consciousness and sleep, things have started to deteriorate. 

"I think about the past sometimes," he told her, one sunny afternoon. The shifting glare of it off the surface of the river was shining in his eyes, and somehow that made it all seem simpler, at least by a degree or two, when he didn't have to see her face in detail. If he squinted, he could almost pretend that she was someone else. "You know. Other ways it might have gone, but didn't." 

"That's perfectly normal," she replied. "You might even say it's healthy. It's part of the process, James. You should indulge your fantasies every now and then, but remember: you were doing your job." She smiled her patient therapist smile and leaned in almost intimately. "If you hadn't been, I expect they would have sent you somewhere else and not my office."

He chuckled politely. "I suppose it's all dreams of three-bed semis in Shropshire and _I wish I'd never left the Army_ with my lot," he said. 

She tapped her pen not quite idly against her thigh. "Is that what you want, James?" she asked.

He sat back in his seat, out of the glare of the sun. When he could see clearly, she didn't look so much like anyone he'd ever known.

"I was Navy," he replied, with a wry twist to his mouth. 

After that, he didn't say much more, and she didn't press him. She didn't really have the grounds to; she'd already lost her professionality a few sessions before that, his smiles and his charm and the bite of his wit probably not even half as alluring as how broken she believes he is. She thinks he loved someone so much he'll never be the same because of it, but he only tells her stories about the men he's killed and not the one he didn't. He knows she has the necessary clearance for it, but he's never said her name, or his.

Still, he took her advice. He indulged himself. She seemed to think he might find it cathartic.

The first time, he was in the shower just past 5am, pissed off that he'd barely slept and with bubbles of shampoo stinging in his eyes. His mind started to wander and instead of shutting it down the way he usually did, or at least the way he tried to, boring himself back into reality by naming all the counties in England in reverse alphabetical order or practicing his Chinese for Espionage out loud over the rush of the shower, he _let_ his mind wander. 

He imagined the front window of his tailor's shop in an afternoon cloudburst, and Le Chiffre walking by it under the canopy of a broad black umbrella. He imagined leaving in a hurry still in a half-stitched jacket and against his tailor's protests. He imagined running, and the street was full of men in suits with black umbrellas, every man identical until he saw their face. And when he found him, when it had to be him because he'd checked all the rest or at least as near as damn it, he caught his arm and spun him around. 

It was him. It was him in a tailored suit with rain soaking into the leather of his tan Oxfords, turning them dark in patches. It was cold and he shivered and he had Le Chiffre's wrist gripped tightly in his hand, so tight his knuckles stood out white against the skin while the rain drummed down against the big black umbrella. He stepped underneath it. He stepped in close and all he could think about was _not_ the trickle of rainwater down the line of his spine under his half-finished jacket or the many varied ways in which he might have liked to hurt him. He thought about that day instead, naked and tied to the chair. 

He rested his head down against the tiled shower wall, and he let him go. When he wrapped his hand around his cock, when he stroked himself, when he groaned and he came, he was thinking about the torture. He wouldn't soon forget. 

The second time, he was in a hotel in Rome, the job complete and a few hours left to kill before flying home to London. He sat down at the table in his suit with its blood-spattered sleeves that he'd hide with his jacket and he imagined himself outside, below, walking in the late afternoon sun. He imagined the noise of the streets all around him, the cars, the people, the tourists with cameras, the beating sun on his skin, until he felt the familiar sensation of a gun pressed tight to the small of his back. 

It was hardly what he could call an unfamiliar situation, given how completely commonplace it is for men in his particular line of work, but he knew who it was who was holding the gun even though he didn't say a word. Le Chiffre steered him into a narrow alley and pressed him up face first against the wall, and Bond considered all the ways he knew to turn the tables, listed them inside his head as he contemplated the old stone wall, but then he did none of them. He let Le Chiffre pull his weapon from his pocket and throw it aside. And when he stood back, Bond turned. 

It was him, wearing a suit despite the summer heat, so Bond imagined him in well-cut trousers and a polo shirt instead, a pair of sunglasses hanging casually over the partially unbuttoned neck. A hint of a tan line showed at his short sleeves and underneath his wristwatch. He looked well, very well, and Bond could perhaps have imagined him less so - sickly and pale, or thinner, or dressed in pyjamas covered head to toe in Peppa Pig - but he didn't. And, standing there, looking at him, staring at him, all Bond could think about was _not_ the trickle of sweat down the length of his spine and all the many varied ways in which he could have killed him without a second's fuss or ceremony. He thought about that day instead, naked and tied to the chair. 

He leaned his head back, he closed his eyes, and he let him go. He pulled his stiff cock from his trousers and he spread his thighs and when he touched himself, when he reached down with his free hand and he squeezed his balls so tight it hurt, he was thinking about the fucking torture. He hated that he was. 

The third time, he'd stopped at a godawful service station somewhere on the M20 from Dover toward London, two in the morning and half asleep behind the wheel. The lights in the deserted gents' were too bright for his over-tired eyes and they flickered, subtly, just enough that the first few times he wondered if it was the lights or some ridiculous product of his exhausted brain. He took a piss and then washed his hands and he looked at himself in the detergent-streaked mirrors that covered the wall above the sinks. He rubbed his eyes with one wet hand, rubbed his face, rubbed the back of his neck. And he thought about Le Chiffre. 

He imagined the hotel. He imagined the Casino Royale. He imagined his room and Vesper on the floor of it, maybe unconscious or maybe dead, her face turned to him, her eyes closed. He looked at her, stared till he couldn't stand to look any longer and so she blinked away, no body by the dressing table, no body in the room except his own. He wasn't well, not the digitalis but he was weak, and on his knees in the suit she'd brought for him. Le Chiffre was there. He saw his shoes out of the corner of his eye and dragged his gaze up, let his head loll back as he looked at him.

He was dressed just the same way that he had been that night, at the table and then after. He came closer, and Bond watched him. He ran one hand over Bond's short hair and he flinched away instinctively and Le Chiffre chuckled lowly as he stood there in front of him. Bond didn't have the strength to stop him as he ran his nails back over his hair, against his scalp, to the back of his neck. He didn't have the energy to protest as he unfastened his fly and drew out his cock. 

He knelt there, mute and fucking useless as Le Chiffre painted his lips with the moist tip of his cock, smelling him, tasting him, heady and sick. He knelt there silently as Le Chiffre pressed his thumb against his bottom lip and eased his mouth open with it, as he ran his thumb against his teeth, against his tongue. Then he slid his cock into his mouth and Bond could feel himself almost choking on it, could feel it against his tongue and the back of his throat and Le Chiffre's hands against him as he fucked his mouth, as he spluttered and gagged and swallowed around him. His own cock was hard inside his dinner suit, but he couldn't lift his hands to touch himself. 

When he felt the pulse of Le Chiffre's cock against his tongue, when his mouth flooded bitter and all that he could do was swallow hard around the length of him, that was when he touched himself. He locked himself inside a cubicle and pushed his trousers down around his knees and he muffled a groan against his cuff as he shuddered and jerked and came. Afterwards, he laughed out loud, his head leaning back against the cubicle door, the sound echoing harshly off the walls. At least, he supposed, he hadn't been thinking about the torture. 

The next time, he checked into a suite in an overpriced hotel where he didn't flatter himself that nobody could find him, but at least it would make them work for it. He ate a moderately satisfying meal alone in the hotel restaurant, drank two glasses of the bourbon that M seemed to prefer and then went up to his room. He showered and he dried himself on the plush hotel towel and he stretched out naked underneath the sheets. He closed his eyes and he didn't let his mind wander - he tuned it in precisely. 

He wasn't sure this had been what his therapist had meant by indulgence, but it seemed to him to fit the definition. He imagined that his operations hadn't been successful, or that someone else had found themselves assigned. He imagined the Skyfleet liner going up in smoke while he watched it on the news at home in London instead of saving it. Then M sent him in, undercover: his job was to find Le Chiffre, to get close, and then bring him in. 

He could imagine the work taking months, and could imagine it better suited to a number of operatives who were more patient than him. He saw it in snapshots: bodyguard work for a client of Le Chiffre's to get himself into his orbit, a quickly-earned reputation for efficient brutality, then a well-placed word in his target's security's ear about a potential change in employer. He could imagine saving his life to gain his trust with a twist of a less loyal man's neck; he put him down on the floor at Le Chiffre's feet, and there was blood trailing down at the corner of his eye that Bond stepped in to rub away with the pad of his thumb. Le Chiffre caught his wrist and held tight. He studied him, calmly, with his mismatched eyes. And, when he kissed him, Bond didn't flinch away.

He let himself imagine it. He thought about bare skin on cool sheet and Le Chiffre's mouth, sucking hard at the inside of one thigh, enough to raise a bruise, then two. He thought about his teeth grazing his skin, a kiss at the palm of his hand, the curve of one arm, his neck over his pulse. He thought about Le Chiffre's slick fingers pushing up between his cheeks, rubbing the rim of his hole as he watched him blush, then the head of his cock, and the low burn of penetration. He thought about his legs pulled tight around Le Chiffre's waist, about the muscles in his neck as he clenched his jaw and threw back his head, about the weight and heat and look and smell of him, wine and soap and blood, and the way he moved, the rise and fall of his chest, his breath through his teeth. 

He thought about sex: Le Chiffre in him in that bed, in a dozen hotel suites, pushed up face first against the inside of a lift with their trousers down around their thighs. He thought about gaining his trust, day by day and night by night, about Le Chiffre's knife against his skin but just the point of it, feather-light, across his collarbones, his abdomen, his thighs. He let the weight of the blade do the cutting so they were barely more than bloodied scratches and then he chased it with his tongue. And afterwards, he'd swab those lines with alcohol under his analytic eye, amused by the way Bond winced. 

Then, one day, the sabotage would be complete, and when Le Chiffre wondered what to do to save himself, Bond wrapped his arms around him and said, "I'm MI6." Le Chiffre laughed. They left together. The thought of it almost made him sick, but he still came to the thought of Le Chiffre's thick cock in him. 

The fifth time, it was simpler. More than a year had passed and closer to two, and he bought himself an extremely good bottle of whisky and sat himself down in his living room armchair. He poured a glass and he drank it slowly, enjoying the taste and the heat and the clink of the glass as he rested it against his teeth. 

When he closed his eyes, the glass still in his hand on the arm of the chair, he thought about Le Chiffre. He thought about that night, naked and tied to the chair, bruised and bleeding, and the rope there in Le Chiffre's hands. White didn't arrive so White didn't enter and when Le Chiffre ran, he took him with him. 

He imagined captivity. He imagined needles and sedatives and things that people like to call truth serums, but he wouldn't give up the password, even if he knew his resistance ultimately meant very, very little. Le Chiffre had allies, and reserves, safe houses - Bond sat with him in the back seats of chauffeur-driven cars as they moved over and over, his head swimming, his seatbelt buckled into place for him, his hands cuffed in his lap. He lived locked into rooms where no one could've heard him scream even if he'd tried to. He didn't try. He spoke when he was spoken to. He only shouted out when Le Chiffre put his hand between his legs and squeezed his balls until they bruised. 

And, in the end, he didn't need the cuffs when they sat together in the car. The door to his room wasn't locked at night and sometimes, sometimes, they slept there side by side. He imagined Le Chiffre's hands on him, easing his thighs apart. He imagined himself on his knees and Le Chiffre's cock in him, stretching him, making him push back against him. He imagined months, years, till one day he leaned up against Le Chiffre's back in the kitchen as he was making lunch. He considered taking the knife from his hand and putting it into his neck; he wondered if the onion and garlic clinging to the blade would make it even worse, and wondered if his blood would hiss against the frying pan. He imagined wrapping his arms around his waist instead. He murmured the password by Le Chiffre's ear, and it changed nothing. 

When he touched himself, he thought about Le Chiffre's hand around his cock instead of his own. Once he came, he smashed the glass against the fireplace, whisky and all. He'd had enough.

He thought he saw him one day not long after that, in the street outside his tailor's. He thought he saw him again a few days after that, walking a dog in Regent's Park, a bichon frise that cocked its leg against the fountain. He thought he saw him on a platform from the window of the Eurostar as he made his way to Brussels, and in the airport crowds at Schipol on his way down to Dubai. He thought he saw him in Rome, and in Marseille, and everywhere. He told himself it wasn't him because it couldn't be him. But, after he'd almost missed his flight, after he'd tried to track a man who wasn't there through an airport larger than some towns he'd known, he called in just to make sure he was still where he ought to be. 

Q patched him into the video feed direct from the holding centre that they can't call a prison because no one really knows it's there, at least not officially. Le Chiffre was still in his cell. Somehow, that didn't feel particularly reassuring. 

He's watched him in his cell every night for a month now. He's watched him read and he's watched him playing chess and he's watched him exercise. He's switched cameras to watch him strip and shower. He's watched him eat and shave and brush his teeth and part his hair as he peers into the mirror hanging over the sink. He's there, and he's cooperating, but enough's enough. 

Le Chiffre looks at him as he steps into the interrogation room and he refuses to acknowledge that it gives him chills. He raps on the door with the knuckles of one hand and the guard turns the key, and they're locked in together. 

"I wasn't expecting you, Mr. Bond," Le Chiffre says, from his seat at the table. The table is bolted to the floor and he's shackled to it, the length of chain between his cuffs run through a sturdy steel loop there in the centre of it. "Have you come to gloat?"

Bond shakes his head tightly. "No," he says. 

"Then what? Revenge? Retaliation? I hear Ms. Lynd met an unpleasant end." 

"No," Bond says, and he leaves the door and steps away, walks away behind him over the mint green linoleum, his eyes on the stark white walls as he plucks the cable from the camera. The whole facility has the look of an institution more than a prison, he thinks. Maybe he's earned a place there just as much as Le Chiffre has. 

"Then what?" he asks. "What I did to you wasn't personal." 

He steps in close behind him. He leans down close beside his ear. "It was _very_ personal," he says. "Don't tell me that was business." 

He half expects Le Chiffre to throw his head back and break his nose, and honestly the hell of it is he'd probably let him. But he doesn't. He folds his hands together neatly on the tabletop instead. 

"You stole from me, Mr. Bond," he says. 

"That's a lie," Bond says. "The money was never yours to begin with." 

"Be that as it may, you stole from me." He glances back at him over one shoulder and then looks away again. "And then you saved my life." 

"That wasn't intentional." 

"But the outcome nonetheless." He pauses. He takes a breath. "So, shall we try again: why did you come here?"

Bond puts both hands on the back of the metal chair Le Chiffre's sitting on. He grips it. He grips tighter, white-knuckled, and then he pulls it away, explosive, throws it against the wall as Le Chiffre tumbles to his knees, his hands still strung up on the table. He pulls himself up, tugging against the chain for leverage. 

"Revenge after all," he says. 

"Closure," Bond replies, and he pushes his face down against the tabletop. 

Le Chiffre doesn't try to struggle, at least not after those initial moments as Bond pulls his white prison trousers down over his hips and bares him arse to knee. He unbuckles his own belt and Le Chiffre just chuckles wryly, his cheek against the tabletop, as if perhaps he understands this after all. Maybe he remembers Bond's face pressed to the wet, rusty floor, how his exhales rippled the stagnant puddles, how he couldn't catch his breath. The chair he was tied to held him in place as he was tipped forward, slowly so it wouldn't knock him out or maybe snap his neck, onto his knees and his face, his nose broken, so much pressure at his cheek that it slowly fractured under it. Maybe Le Chiffre remembered threatening castration but fucking him instead, slowly and deeply, cock inside him, stretching him, still ridiculously attached to that fucking chair. When MI6 found him not long after, Bond was still there like that, tipped forward onto the floor with Le Chiffre's come dripping down over his bruised, aching balls. It took him weeks to recover. He's not sure he ever has. 

He parts Le Chiffre's cheeks and spits against his hole, spreads it with his thumb, does it again, then pushes in. The friction's so much that it almost hurts, but that's okay, that's good, it'll hurt Le Chiffre more than it hurts him. He fucks him slowly, his hands gripping tight at his bare waist. He fucks him in long, deep thrusts of his hips, and his breath is harsh, and so is Le Chiffre's, misting against the chilly metal table. He feels this thing he's doing clawing at him, crawling in him, till his muscles tense and his teeth are bared, and fuck, _fuck_ , Le Chiffre groans obscenely and when he reaches around, when he gropes between his thighs, he's hard. It turns his stomach. He wasn't meant to like it. 

He does it harder, like that will help. He fucks him harder, erratic, his fingers digging in till he's sure he'll bruise. He does it _harder_ , till it hurts him too, but it's enough that his breath's short and his pulse races and his head fucking reels until he bucks and jerks and fucking spasms and empties himself inside Le Chiffre. He can't stifle his groan, pained and disgusted as it is. No one's listening, anyway. 

He steps back. He pulls out. He resists the strange urge to rub his softening cock between Le Chiffre's cheeks, to spread his come from the crack of his arse to the back of his balls, to make him drip with it. He resists the urge to keep him there like that till he can get it up again and come on his back or his face or in his fucking hair and then slap his face with his cock, with his hand, till his lip splits and he bleeds from there as well as his fucked-up eye. He pulls up his trousers. He buckles his belt, and Le Chiffre turns, and he hops up onto the table with a wince. 

His cock standing up thick and flushed and stiff between his thighs. He can't quite get his hands to it. And Bond knows he shouldn't, he knows that, viscerally, but he goes there anyway and he licks his lips and he takes him in his mouth. He sucks him in deep, till he's gagging but he doesn't care. He sucks him for all of forty second till he growls and he comes and Bond spits it all out onto the floor. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve. When he looks at Le Chiffre, his brows are raised and his pale eye is dripping blood. When Bond kisses him, roughly, full of fucking spite, it doesn't push him away. When he pulls back, Le Chiffre licks his lips. He smiles. He looks genuinely fucking amused. 

"This isn't closure," he says, and Bond slaps him. He spits blood, smiles again with it smeared over his teeth, and laughs out loud. 

Bond knocks on the door. The guard opens it, and he leaves Le Chiffre there, but his heart's up in his fucking throat as he walks away. 

He's right: this isn't closure. He was a fool to think it was. 

This isn't closure. This is only the beginning.


End file.
